My Heart Bleeds for You
by holmesless-assbutt-timelord
Summary: The Baker Street boys are summoned to America on the promise of a case by the FBI. They expect for it to be a strange one, since the victims' hearts have gone missing, but they aren't prepared for what they encounter. After running into the Winchester brothers at a crime scene, and deciding they are liars, John and Sherlock team up with them them to solve the case.
1. Chapter 1

This is a very important case, Sherlock. You should show a bit more respect than this.

-MH

After a series of calls, voices messages, and texts, Sherlock finally broke his concentration to glare disdainfully at his phone. Mycroft had been hounding him about this case for _days._ It seemed that he did not understand that Sherlock simply wasn't interested. And why would he be? This wasn't the first time that a foreign agency had contacted him in hopes that he would be their problem solver. Perhaps if the case was more interesting, he'd be willing to fly across the sea to the United States. But in Sherlock's mind, a string of unexplained disappearances did not a worthy case make.

New information has come about. I obviously cannot discuss like this. Call me.

-MH

Mycroft was out of his mind if he thought that Sherlock would take such plain bait. Obviously his elder brother was trying to tempt into the case by offering something of interest, but knowing Mycroft, it was nothing more than an obviously wrong possibility being ruled out. Even if there was new evidence, it would have to be pretty spectacular to get Sherlock on a plane.

Sherlock, if you don't call me, I will have you escorted to my office. I know where you live.

-MH

Oh, for heaven's sake, if it would get Mycroft off his back, Sherlock supposed he would have to call him. He dialed his brother's number, only having to wait through one ring before the other end was picked up.

"Why didn't you get back to me sooner?" Mycroft's voice carried an annoyed edge to it. Sherlock loved when that happened.

"I was in the middle of an experiment." For once, though, this wasn't true. Sherlock had been surfing the web looking for an interesting case when his brother decided to interrupt him. Honestly, he would have called him back earlier, because he was dead bored, but making Mycroft upset was one of his favorite hobbies. "I wanted to see how long it took a certain species of beetle to strip a human body down to the bone. Surprisingly short amount of time, really."

"Oh brother, don't lie to me. I have cameras set up in your house, as you are aware. You were on the computer."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be annoyed. "Why must you always invade my privacy?"

"Because, Sherlock, this is a case of the utmost importance, and you decided on ignoring me. You have responsibilities, you know," Mycroft said, his voice taking on that irritating older-brother quality. Sherlock despised his lectures.

"So you seem to think. But what responsibility could I possibly have towards the American FBI? They're not even within your jurisdiction."

"I am aware of this. However, many foreign agencies have been following your accomplishments, and the United States has a particular interest in you. They have been trying to solve this case for several years now, and they've finally gotten to the point where they need outside help. This could be an opportunity for you to branch out."

Another thinly veiled lie. Mycroft had no interest in making Sherlock's career international. The only time Mycroft called his detective little brother in was when it would benefit himself and himself alone. Certainly, if Sherlock solved this case, the U.S. would be in Mycroft's debt for borrowing him out. And as annoying as the country's public's officials were, it was never a bad idea to have a favor owed by America.

"If I have refused this case before, what makes you think I would take it now?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Because I am asking you to."

To this, Sherlock openly laughed. "Try again."

"Fine. Because, brother of mine, this one has even me stumped. There is a certain piece of information that was revealed to me that brings this case to a whole new level of… absurdity. It is right up your alley."

For a moment, Sherlock silently weighed his options. He could refuse the case again, but Mycroft would unquestioningly be on his tail about it in no time at all. He could take the case and fly to America, only to find it of no interest to him. He settled on finding out the new information that had Mycroft so convinced Sherlock would want the case in the first place.

"Where should I meet you?" Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes. He wasn't nearly as bothered as he let on, but if he put on a show for the cameras, Mycroft would make more of an effort to win his favor. And it was always fun to see his brother beg.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Mycroft decided. Giving Sherlock no time to argue, he hung up. Sherlock supposed he should get dressed.

"John!" Sherlock called, making his voice sound strained and panicked. That would make John hurry. He began to walk towards his bedroom, so he might put on a suit, when he heard shuffling above him, and then feet pounding on the stairs. Just as Sherlock was pulling off his robe, John rushed into his bedroom, out of breath. His eyes were wild.

"I thought you were being murdered!" John said angrily, getting in Sherlock's face. "Why do you always do that to me?!"

"To make you hurry," Sherlock said indifferently. "Mycroft is going to be here any minute to debrief us on a new case."

"You're actually taking a case from Mycroft?" John asked, looking away when Sherlock began to peel off his shirt. His ears were pink with embarrassment, just the reaction Sherlock was looking saw naked bodies all day in surgery, but he couldn't handle the detective's bare chest. It made Sherlock laugh (on the inside, of course.)

"Well, he hasn't given me much choice. He called me seven times today just to get me to take it."

"Must be pretty important," John concluded, chancing a glance at Sherlock. Now he was stripped down to his underwear. "He's not one to appear desperate like that."

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at John's red face. He took such joy in making his friend uncomfortable. "You are correct about that," the detective agreed.

"So any idea what the case is about?" John inquired, ignoring Sherlock's snicker. The stupid git took any chance he could to make the doctor blush.

"A string of seemingly unrelated disappearances in the United States. Their FBI won't tell me why they think they're linked until I have gone there to investigate myself. They must think it's some sort of incentive, but if anything, it's bothersome." Sherlock tucked his now buttoned shirt into the trousers he had already pulled on. "You can look at me now."

John looked cautiously in Sherlock's direction, ready to avert his eyes if the detective proved to be nude. But much to his relief, Sherlock was fully clothed.

"Mycroft is being rather secretive about it as well, which leads me to wonder how it could possibly be so important. He's not usually one to get mixed up in American business; he had quite the argument with one of their past presidents, and hasn't seen eye to eye with them since."

The doorbell rang just as Sherlock was shrugging his jacket on. It had only been five minutes since he'd hung up with Mycroft; obviously his brother was already on the way here when Sherlock finally decided to call him back. Of course he had been.

"Mrs. Hudson, get the door, will you!" Sherlock shouted, straightening his collar. John raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"She's not the maid, Sherlock."

"Of course she's not. If she was, this flat would actually be clean," Sherlock replied matter of factly. John rolled his eyes.

Just as they entered the living room, the door to 221b opened. Mycroft stood in the doorway, his arms crossed in an impatient manner. His umbrella dangled from his left hand, though it wasn't raining outside. Much like Sherlock and his scarf, the umbrella went with him wherever he went, no matter how impractical.

"So you've got a case for us?" John asked, plopping down in his chair.

"You think you're going to bring him with you? Sherlock, you know that they won't clear him. You must-" Mycroft began.

"I mustn't do anything. If I take this case, the key word being _if, _then John must come with me. That is not up for discussion." John grinned rather smugly at this. "I'd be lost without my blogger," Sherlock added, his voice sharp with sarcasm. Again, John rolled his eyes.

"Fine. I'll see what I can work out. But to answer your question, Dr. Watson, I suppose I do have a case for you. One that my brother has very rudely refused several times previously. Would you like to hear about it?"

John nodded his assent before settling back in his chair. Mycroft, having a flair for the dramatic, tended to go on longer than necessary when it came to this sort of thing. Sometimes his explanations were so long winded, John offered to make the elder Holmes tea as an excuse to get up and move around; this way, he wouldn't fall asleep.

"I don't know how much Sherlock has told you, so I will start from the beginning. For the past three years, the American FBI has been tracking a chain of disappearances. They seem unrelated, but after looking into it further, I assure you that they are not. It seems that they were all snatched up on a full moon. Yesterday, some of the known victims turned up; unfortunately, they were not alive. And this is where it gets interesting. At first glance, they seem to have been attacked by an animal. They suffered scratch wounds and bites.

"However, looking more closely, one would realize they all died from the same type of wound. All three of the victims' hearts were missing. There was minimal damage everywhere else, and no other major organs were extracted. No animal would just eat the heart and leave. They believe they have some sort of devil worshipping serial killer on their hands."

Sherlock couldn't help but to look interested. They had a real lunatic on their hands. Of course, he couldn't be all that clever if he left his bodies lying around where they could be spotted. That is, unless he wanted them to be found. In which case, this was just as much a game to the killer as it was to Sherlock.

"Is there anything else they decided to share with us?" John asked.

"They said they have some more evidence, but it is so classified that they have chosen not to divulge it unless you take on the case," Mycroft answered.

"Just answer me one last thing; why are you so hard pressed to get me to take this one? I thought you hated the American government," Sherlock said.

An uncomfortable expression creeped across Mycroft's features. This was obviously not something he wanted to discuss. "I owe them a favor."

"You? Owe them? Well, that's got to be a pretty delicious story!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Can we talk about this later? There are people dying, brother, and unfortunately, you are the only one who can save them."

"How soon can we leave?"

"I have a plane arranged to leave in one hour."

"Better get going, then," Sherlock decided, grabbing his overcoat off the back of the chair. Handing John his jacket, he started out the door. John caught him by the wrist before he got too far.

"So that's it then? We're just going to America?!" John practically shouted.

"Yes we are. The game is on, John, and I, for one, don't intend to miss a moment of it."


	2. Chapter 2

"So where are we headed today, Sammy?" Dean asked as he slid into the driver's seat. Sam, who was already settled in the passenger's side, spread out the newspaper on his lap. After brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, he began to explain his findings.

"Well, you know all those disappearances on the news? I guess they really were our kind of thing. A couple of the vics turned up last night, but get this: their hearts were missing."

Sam face was expectant, as if he was waiting for his brother to admit he was impressed. Dean raised his eyebrows in suspicion.

"Well that's an easy one. It's a werewolf, right?"

"See, that was my first thought," Sam said, straightening his back the way he did when he was about to relish in correcting Dean. "But if it is a werewolf, it's not the kind we usually deal with. The bodies were _dumped_, in a warehouse, hidden under a tarp."

"But werewolves don't have that kind of sense. They just leave the bodies wherever they kill them. They don't even realize that they've killed someone when they change back," Dean said, his eyebrows pulling together.

"Exactly. So we've either got a self aware werewolf, or a whole new kind of creature."

"Sounds like a job to me. Where were the bodies dumped?"

"Minneapolis, Minnesota," Sam stated. To this, Dean groaned.

"I hate that place. It's too cold. It's March right now, and I bet you ten bucks that they've still got snow."

Sam's mouth shifted into a disapproving frown. His brother could be such a child sometimes. "Well, it's where we're going, so you better put on a parka while you can."

"Dude, I don't even own a parka."

They had to drive half of the day, but the Winchesters reached Minneapolis while the sun was still in the sky, and Sam called that a victory. If they had any luck, there would still be officers inspecting the crime scene, and there would still be people to question.

Directing through the crazy traffic of downtown Minneapolis was not an easy feat, but they made it to the scene without an accident. Dean straightened his tie, and smoothed the shirt he had changed into at a gas station a few miles back. He hated wearing this god damn monkey suit. Why couldn't FBI agents wear something more comfortable? Jeans maybe? Though, he had to admit, he did look pretty good in the thing.

Without a word, the brothers climbed out of the Impala. Already, they were settled into the easy harmony of the hunt. On the job, their steps were in sync, their thoughts were in tune; they practically breathed at the same time. They'd been doing this for so long, it was second nature. They were two halves of a whole.

After flashing their fake badges to the officers guarding the entrance to the warehouse, the Winchesters made their way inside. Just as they were hoping, the scene was still alive with people. Detectives questioning witnesses, forensic scientists photographing bodies. This was a familiar sight for them.

"Excuse me," Sam said, catching the attention of a pretty, young cop. "Could you explain to us what happened here?"

"The feds are back again?" the woman asked, eying the brothers suits suspiciously.

"They sent us back to do some wrap up work, but we still need to be fully informed. So, if you could tell us what happened…" Dean replied, cranking up the charm. Sam hated when he got that fake grin on his face.

"Well, as they should of told you," she began sharply. "The bodies were dumped here, at our best guess, a week ago. They were found by a couple of teenagers who decided it was a good idea to screw around in the slummy part of town. Anyway, we didn't find any traces of narcotics or alcohol in their blood, and besides the kill wounds, and a few bites and scratches, there were no signs of abuse. One of the victims, George Caston, was reported missing almost a year ago. So whoever took him actually took pretty good care of him."

"Up until they killed him," Dean interrupted, attempting to joke. "Well, you know, it's not exactly considered good practice to murder people."

"Obviously, agent," the cop replied, clenching her teeth with the effort not to clock him. Dean had a certain talent for rubbing law enforcement the wrong way with his cheeky remarks. "But, as I was saying, there were no other signs of abuse. We swept the area for fingerprints and other DNA evidence, but we're coming up empty. Whoever killed these people obviously has some practice."

_You have that right, _Dean thought to himself. _Whatever monster did this, it wasn't their first time. _

"Do you have any leads on where the rest of the kidnapping victims might be?" Sam asked in his usual concerned way.

"What do you mean, the rest of the kidnapping victims?" the officer asked, crossing her arms.

"I thought it was a pretty obvious pattern," Dean answered before Sam could attempt. "Eight people have gone missing within the same five hundred radius, all on a full moon. You don't think that's a little fishy?"

The officer's scowl deepened. It was apparent that she did not appreciate Dean's smart aleck attitude. Through gritted teeth, she replied "That seems like a pretty weak pattern."

Before the argument got any more heated, Sam stepped between them. "Thank you, Debra," Dean said smartly, taking the name from the tag on her shirt. "I think we have all the info we need." Sam gave her an apologetic look before turning to his brother. "What the hell was that? Are you trying to get us arrested?"

"We're feds, Agent Perry. They wouldn't dare."

Sam gave his signature eye roll, but decided to let it slide. There was no point fighting with Dean over something so petty when people's lives were at stake.

"So what are you thinking?" Dean asked.

"I don't know, man. I think it's pretty obvious that it's not a werewolf, at least not any kind that we've ever dealt with before. But I don't know any other monsters that just take the hearts. Do you think it could have been some sort of sacrifice?" Sam inquired.

"Maybe. But the bite marks and scratches don't really add up that way. Why would you beat up the body like that if you only need the heart? Plus, it doesn't look like it was cut out. Looks like some freak took their claws to it."

"I guess you're right," Sam sighed. "Time to hit the books?"

"Yeah, I s'pose. But can we hit a diner first or something? I freaking starving," Dean whined as he started for the exit.

"You're always starving," Sam commented, following him out.

"Whatever. At least I don't eat rabbit food."

"More feds?" Debra complained as two actual federal agents flashed their badges at her but a mere ten minutes later. The agents guests, none other than Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, looked at her in surprise.

"_More _feds? Sherlock, I thought we were the only ones from the FBI on the scene today?" John whispered quietly. Sherlock shrugged noncommittally.

"It seems that we are not, John. Though I have a sneaking suspicion that the agents from earlier are not at all who they say they are."


	3. Chapter 3

"John! Wake up!" Sherlock called from across their hotel suite as he straightened his scarf. "There's been another one!"

John rubbed the sleep from his eyes while Sherlock bounced excitedly around the room, collecting what he would need. The detective shuffled through his pockets, making sure he had his tiny magnifying glass and his cell phone. Not that he would ever miss place them, but he often found himself compulsively checking his pockets for them before heading to a scene. They were always right there, cradled in the warmth of his woolen overcoat. But still, he preferred to know for certain.

After John pulled on a jumper and a pair of jeans, the pair ventured outside their room. Sherlock didn't have the patience for the elevator, and since they were only on the third floor, he opted for the stairs. A still sleepy John fumbled behind him, not entirely comprehending where he was going and why.

Their car, complete with two very burly FBI agents, was already waiting in the hotel's drive for them. Without hesitation, Sherlock jumped inside, scooting over just barely enough for John to climb in. Sherlock's long, slim fingers were already working away on his phone, probably trying to stir up any details that he could about the new body. John continued to knead at his eyes, as he had only just dozed off when Sherlock woke him. This life was definitely one of excitement, not rest.

It didn't take long to get to the crime scene, since it was only a few miles from their hotel. The body had been hidden in a dumpster in a secluded alley behind a bar. Of course the killer hadn't been counting on a homeless man rummaging through the trash to find sustenance (unless, Sherlock hoped, he had.)

The victim, one young Alicia Vincent, had the same wounds as the two before her. A few scratches, a couple bites, and one gaping hole where her heart used to be. And unlike the teenage romance novels that favored such a saying to reference a break up, there was nothing poetic about the kill wound. There were no graceful knife marks, no careful incisions. Sherlock's favorite sort of murderers were careful, meticulous, _elegant. _So far, this killer was proving to be none of the above.

Still, this case was an interesting one. No animal would have hidden the bodies, and no human that Sherlock knew of could make claw marks such as these. The long, feral strokes that burrowed into the poor girl's chest looked like that of a bear. But their concentration in the one spot had the detective thinking otherwise once again. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock could honestly say he was stumped (not that he would admit to it) and he was desperate to figure out this case.

John went about talking to the homeless man, Hubert, that had the unfortunate luck of finding Alicia, while Sherlock inspected the body more closely. The detective found no powders, no residues, not even a single hair that would guide him in the right direction. All of the possibilities were swirling around noisily in his head, making it incredibly difficult to concentrate. He needed to find something that would rule out some of his ideas. He needed to narrow his focus, but as a rather practiced forensic expert, he knew he could not do so without the proof that allowed him to.

What made Sherlock such a brilliant detective wasn't his witty mouth, his sharp intellect, or his strong instincts. It wasn't his profound knowledge in just about every academic area, or his photographic memory, those these traits certainly helped. What made Sherlock a good detective was his open mind. If he did not have proof that something was not true, he did not allow himself to believe it untrue. No matter how ridiculous or outrageous a theory was, if it was still believed to be possible, he was considering it. At moments such as this, though, where he had no guiding factors, he was driven mad by the sheer amount of theories going through his head.

"So, what did he see?" Sherlock asked, his gaze still fixed on Alicia. John had just finished questioning Hubert, and Sherlock was sincerely hoping that John had something to offer.

"Apparently he didn't see anything. He only found the body. The police guess that it was dumped here a couple days ago, so I'm not surprised that he saw nothing. They're going to put this on the news and see if anyone comes forward with information. With as brutal as these killings are, though, I don't think anyone is going to come forward," John said matter-of-factly. Sherlock sighed tiredly.

"For once, John, I believe you may be right. If anyone has information, they're likely to play it close to their chest. Murders such as these tend to make people more… cautious."

Sherlock took a step back from the body, seeing if a change in perspective would allow him some new insight. But even from a new angle, the scene appeared to be the same: a pretty young blond with a gaping hole in her chest. She had full sleeve tattoos, well done ones at that. They had to be expensive. But her clothes were cheap and torn, which told Sherlock that she was hard on money. Tattoo artist friends, obviously. Her eyebrows were shaved off, only to be drawn in again. They were drawn with an expert hand, with sharp edges and even coloring. The rest of her make up, aside from being smudged, looked carefully done as well. Took a lot of pride in her looks, then. Possibly a cosmetic artist of some sort. Definitely not a hair stylist, though. Her locks were too plain and colorless. As far as Sherlock could tell, it was virgin hair. The series of x's tattooed beneath her left collarbone clearly stated that she was straight edge, meaning she hadn't been killed in a drunken brawl or over drug money. Even without the tattoo, Sherlock knew as much. So why was a girl like this lying dead in an alley of downtown Minneapolis?

"What do you make of her?" Sherlock inquired, motioning towards Alicia. John gave a noncommittal shrug.

"She's pretty. Likes tattoo's obviously. Other than that, I don't really know. We know the most likely causes of death. Physical trauma and blood loss. What more is there?"

Sherlock shook his head, enjoying John's ignorance for a moment, before beginning. "She was a poor college student," he said, noticing the lanyard sticking out of her pocket that bore the local university's logo. "She had at least one friend who shares her affinity for body ink. She takes a lot of pride in how she looks, but has never colored her hair. Bit odd for girl's her age, now-a-days. She doesn't drink alcohol, smoke, or do drugs. Oh, and it would seem that she has some sort of lover, judging by the marks on her neck."

A series of hickeys were scattered across the delicate, pale skin on her neck. Some were faded and yellowing, but others couldn't be more than a few days old. They were all roughly the same size, leading Sherlock to believe they were made by the same mouth. Finally, a lead! The lover is always the first suspect, after all.

"How do we find the boyfriend?" John asked.

"We find out where she lived, who her friends and family are, and go from there. If the lover doesn't come forward when her death is announced, it will only strengthen my theory."

"Alright. Do you want me to get her information from the police?" Sherlock nodded his assent. "Okay. Be back in a second."

For a moment, Sherlock watched his friend go, only to have his attention stolen away again. Two rather conspicuous men had just entered the scene, after flashing what looked to be FBI badges. The taller of the two, a longer haired man with broad, muscled shoulders, made his way over to where Sherlock was standing. The detective smiled politely.

"Mind if I ask you a few questions?" the man asked, flashing his badge again.

"Certainly, agent Perry," Sherlock replied cordially. "Ask away."

Before Perry even opened his mouth, Sherlock knew he was a fake. The long hair was a dead giveaway, but there were several subtler clues as well. The cheap material of his suit, the rough condition of his shoes, his badge, none of it felt quite right. The man seemed at ease, as if he had been doing this for years, but he didn't look a day over thirty. There was no way that an agent that young would be so practiced, so calm. Not to mention his relaxed posture. The agents that had picked Sherlock and John up that morning were stiff as boards, and yet Perry's shoulders were loose and casual.

Rather than calling the man out, however, Sherlock decided that it would be more interesting to hear his questions. Perhaps agent Perry could give him some insight to this case.

"How did you know the victim?"

"I didn't," Sherlock explained. "I'm actually working this case. I may not be in uniform like yourself, agent, but I promise you that I am a professional."

Perry raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend, or anything. Your accent just threw me off. I assumed you weren't from around here," he reasoned.

"I am not. I was actually pulled from abroad for this one. In fact, it would seem that I am working with your agency, Mr. Perry."

This caught Perry off guard. He hadn't been planning to deal with real federal agents, or their British helpers. He forced a smile before continuing.

"Really? It's such a small world, isn't it? Well, in that case, just tell me what you know."

"Well, Alicia was a poor college student. She had at least one tattoo artist for a friend, if not more. It is safe to assume that she had a lover of some kind, so it will be important to try and find them. You know how it goes. The boyfriend is always the first suspect. She didn't drink or do drugs, so I believe she wasn't killed because of either," Sherlock concluded, repeating his findings from earlier.

"How'd you know all of that?" Perry asked, if not a little amazed.

"I see what others do not," Sherlock replied simply. "Including your cheap suit, your scuffed shoes, and your fake badge. So I suggest you come up with a very good excuse for impersonating a federal agent before I report you to the real ones."

Perry's relaxed nature immediately turned rigid. Sherlock could see the conflict in his eyes as he decided whether to tell the truth or try and spin another lie and risk being found out by someone less friendly. If you could call Sherlock friendly, that is.

"Alright," Perry agreed through gritted teeth. "Alright. But the truth is pretty unbelievable."

"You'll find that I'm a rather open minded man, 'agent.'"

"I'm a… I'm a hunter; obviously not the deer and goose kind, but a hunter nonetheless. I track down… paranormal stuff. You know, werewolves, vampires, demons, spirits, that kind of thing. My brother and I, we read about these killings in the newspaper. They were consist with werewolves, since they followed the lunar cycle, and the hearts were missing. Werewolves only eat the hearts. Anyway, we're just trying to stop whatever is doing this. We're not some kind of creeps that get our rocks off by seeing dead bodies."

Perry waited in anxious silence while Sherlock digested his story. Though the detective generally shied away from the idea of monsters and the supernatural, he had to admit Perry's explanation had him intrigued. It was true that Sherlock hadn't exactly worked out a theory yet, and there wasn't much of one brewing in the clues. He had considered that his knowledge simply didn't extend far enough to solve this case, but only for a brief moment. He knew practically everything, didn't he?

"What's your real name?" Sherlock asked in a controlled voice.

Again, Perry hesitated.

"Sam Winchester."

Sam Winchester. Sherlock remembered seeing that name in a headline somewhere. A quick glance through the files in his mind palace, and he found himself able to place Sam with the correct article. The Winchester brothers had been charged with several crimes over the years, the most prominent being murder, but they were believe to be dead. Was this man really stupid enough to use such a famous alias?

No, there was no reason that he would choose to assume the identity of a murderer. Sam must have been the real deal. But that begged the question of why he was willing to give himself up to Sherlock. Surely if he truly was guilty of murder, he would not share his name so easily.

"Are you aware that you are on top of the FBI's most wanted list, and you have two agents over by the door who would be _very _happy to take you in?"

Sam nodded.

"And yet you still share your name with me? And your obtuse excuse of being a paranormal hunter? Why shouldn't I turn you in at this very moment, Sam?" Sherlock inquired forcefully.

"Because I'm not lying. And all that crap with the FBI is a misunderstanding. I never killed anybody," Sam answered in a hushed voice. "And neither did Dean. Those were shape shifters, and leviathan. Not that you really know what I'm talking about, but I swear it's the truth. Why would I feed you such a bullshit excuse if I had a better one? It's the only one I've got."

"If it's true, then you can explain the evidence to me. Examine Alicia's body, take as long as you need, and then tell me exactly how you know what killed her."

Sam looked uneasy, but did as Sherlock asked. He squatted down, taking in every detail of the scene before him. The claw marks. Her torn clothing. The hickeys on her neck. Her gaping chest cavity. The gore of it all still made his stomach churn, even after all these years, but he force himself to look, just as he always did.

"Like I said before, her heart is missing. That alone wouldn't be enough to prove that it's a werewolf, 'cause a lot of rituals require a human heart. But look at the scratched. Humans don't have nails long enough or hard enough to do that kind of damage. And if it was some kind of wild animal, why wouldn't it eat the rest of her organs? Animals aren't wasteful. So that tells me werewolf."

"But?" Sherlock noted the note of uncertainty in Sam's last sentence.

"But… As far as I'm aware, werewolves don't really have the sense to hide the body. See, when the moon is full, werewolves don't really have a choice but to turn. And when they turn, they go into a kind of frenzy. They turn into an animal really. And what kind of animal dumps a body in a warehouse? Or better yet, a dumpster?" Sam paused, searching Sherlock's face for any kind of positive reinforcement of agreement. He found none. "So I guess we're not really sure what it is. That's why we're here. We need to figure out what we're up against so we can bring it down."

"I see. Well, I can't say the evidence disagrees with you. All of the disappearances did coincide with the lunar cycle, and these killing were both animalistic and human. I have a personal philosophy. Once you rule out the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be true. Hence my need to keep an open mind." Now Sherlock paused, the decision still before him whether or not to turn this wanted man in. "I will allow you to continue working this case. I will not let my agent friends know who you are, or why you are here, upon the condition that your brother and yourself work along side me."

Sam look uneasy, but he didn't have much of a choice. He could either comply with this strange British man, or he could be turned in.

"Alright. I just have to go tell Dean about our new… arrangement."

"Certainly."

Sam walked as quickly as he could, without drawing attention to himself, to get to Dean. Unsurprisingly, the older Winchester was making small talk with a yet another pretty, young cop. Sam found himself rolling his eyes before interrupting their unproductive conversation.

"I'm sorry, miss. May I borrow my partner for a moment?" Sam asked politely. The officer nodded, the loose brown waves of her ponytail bouncing along with her head. Dean gave her a quick smile before his gaze turned unwillingly to his brother.

"What is it?" Dean hissed. "I was about to get her number!"

"Forget about getting laid for once, Dean. We have bigger fish to fry. See that guy over there?" Sam gestured as inconspicuously towards Sherlock as he could. Still, the detective noticed and waved at them. Sam frowned. "I don't know how, but he's figured us out. He's knows we're not real agents, he knows our real names. And he's threatening to turn us in unless we let him in on what we know."

"The prick. Who does he think he is?"

"I don't know, but he actually has an in with the FBI. Apparently he's working with them. If he wants us caught, we will be in no time. I say we just do what he says. What harm can he really do?"

"Well, he could get us put in jail for life," Dean began.

"Whatever. What other choices do we really have?"

"None, I guess. Alright, we'll go along with what the freak says. But the second that I think he's gonna start trouble, I'm putting a bullet through his head."

"Dean-" Sam warned.

"I'm just kidding, Sammy. Jeez, lighten up."

Sam motioned Sherlock over, and the detective complied with the gesture. Without introducing himself to Dean, he started in on his deductions.

"My, my, been under a lot of stress have we, Dean? I could smell the whisky from over there, but it is absolutely overpowering here. Could it have something to do with the daddy issues that plague you? Or perhaps it's your inferiority complex. I simply cannot decide."

Sam placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed gently, reminding his brother that their fate now rested on this obnoxious man's shoulders.

"I hate this guy," Dean whispered not-so-quietly.

"You and everyone else I work with," Sherlock added. He smirked at them, smugness coming off of him in waves.

_What have we gotten ourselves into? _Dean asked himself silently._ This guy is psychotic_

"And I'm not psychotic. I'm a high functioning sociopath." Sherlock's voice was detached, matter of fact. "Honestly, do your research."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean hated a lot of things. He couldn't stand salad, slow drivers pissed him off, and it drove him crazy when Sam would drum his fingers on the dashboard of the impala. But one thing that Dean hated more than anything these things _combined_ was the annoying, egotistical detective known as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was rude. He would spout off personal, irrelevant deductions at the most inconvenient times, he didn't say thank you, or please, or any of the other magic words they taught in kindergarten. He walked into Sam and Dean's motel room like he owned the place, and proceeded to insult their living conditions. He was an insufferable know-it-all and continued to correct Dean's grammar after he threatened to pistol whip him at least eight times. Basically, he was Dean's worst nightmare.

Even Sam had a hard time finding something good to say about Sherlock. Of course, he was very good at his job. He was a hard worker, and he truly did see things that others did not. But Sam found it hard to focus on his good points when Sherlock woke them up at two in the morning to borrow their father's journal. Twice.

Sherlock's companion, though, was a pretty pleasant guy. John swore like a sailor, which won Dean over, and his affinity for literature had Sam practically swooning. He was polite, and kind, and he always apologized for Sherlock when he insulted someone. If anything, John Watson was Sherlock's only redeeming quality in the Winchester's eyes.

Their hatred towards the British detective could have had something to do with the fact that he was practically holding them hostage as well. If Dean complained about having to cart Sherlock around, he would flash his phone, which had the real FBI on speed dial. Number three, to be exact.

Even so, the Winchesters had to admit that it was nice to have the help. Since Bobby's death, they hadn't had much in the way of backup.

"So," Dean began one cold, early morning. "Where are we off to today?"

He eyed Sherlock from his rearview mirror, waiting for that smug smile to spread across his lips. Instead, the detective gave him a cold, hard expression.

"A crime scene. There has been another killing."

Usually Sherlock would be excited at the prospect of having a scene to inspect, but the body count that the killer had been racking up kept his attitude in check. In the week that he had been in America, six people had already passed away due to mysterious chest wounds, and he didn't have so much as one suspect.

"Jesus, what does that make? Five?" Dean asked.

"Six, actually," Sam answered grimly. Their failure to capture and kill whatever was doing this was weighing heavily on his shoulders as well.

"Six people dead, and we don't even know for sure what's doing this. Are we losing our touch or something, Sammy?"

"I would certainly hope not," Sherlock interrupted. "I won't hesitate to revoke our previous arrangement if you prove to be useless."

Dean shot Sherlock a look through the rearview mirror again, willing his gaze to burn the arrogant detective.

"Yeah, so you've reminded us. Every. Single. Day."

"Dean," Sam warned.

"It's okay," John intervened, his voice apologetic. "Honestly, we know you two have been doing your very best. It seems that this is a strange case for involved."

Dean's smart remark caught in his throat at John's kindness. He had to remember how his harshness affected not only Sherlock, but his blogger as well. The detective may have been obnoxious and rude beyond belief, but John was a good man that happened to be caught up in Sherlock's whirlwind of deductions, and Dean couldn't harm one without damaging his relationship with the other.

"I think we're all a little tired and frustrated," Sam agreed.

Dean rolled his eyes, but followed the directions that Sherlock gave him from that point after. He didn't argue with Sherlock about the route they took to the scene, though it was longer than the one that he had in mind, and he didn't shout at him for slamming the impala's door. That latter had taken quite a bit of self-control.

"Back again, agents?" the sheriff inquired when the boys stepped onto the scene. Dean tried to smile politely, but it turned to a grimace.

"Yes sir. What can you tell us this time?" Sam asked before Dean could put his foot in his mouth.

"Same as the others. Fatal chest wound, dumped in a secluded area, no other obvious clues or injuries. I don't know what to tell you boys. This killer isn't giving me much to work with."

"Nor us. But we're working on it. Mind if we take a look at the body?" Dean asked.

"At this point, I don't really care what you do, agent Tyler. I just want this killer caught."

Sam placed a reassuring hand on the sheriff's shoulder as he passed, the other three trailing behind him. He stooped down to get a closer look and Dean copied his movements. When they came up empty, they moved to give Sherlock room to investigate. The detective set to work as soon as they were no longer in his way.

"I can tell you one thing for certain," Sherlock said as he scanned the victims clothing with his magnifying glass.

"What's that?" John asked.

"This killing is most certainly not like the others."

"What d'ya mean?" Dean asked, leaning in to watch Sherlock work.

"It seems that our killer is getting careless. See this?" Sherlock motioned to the victim's stomach. Dean shook his head, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. "They've left behind a piece of hair."

Sherlock pulled out a pair of tweezers and picked up the hair gingerly. He examined it under his magnifying glass before continuing.

"The victim's hair was a very light red color, while this one is silver. Given where the body was found," Sherlock explained, gesturing to the back alley that they were located in. "I am willing to bet that not many people come here, and the person who reported the body certainly didn't have hair this color."

Sam nodded along with Sherlock's explanation, while Dean stood with his arms across his chest.

"And look at the shine to this hair. It seems almost… unnatural, doesn't it? I'm nearly certain that, when examined under a microscope, it will prove not to be human."

"Well, that blows the lid off of our guess," Dean huffed, annoyed. "Werewolves are human. Sort of."

"What about a shifter? Remember that dude that could turn into a dog? The little gang that he was a part of? Maybe there was more of them. And maybe some of them could turn into wolves," Sam suggested.

"That doesn't explain the way these people died, though. If they just wanted them dead, there are easier ways to do it than busting their ribcage open. They needed the hearts for something."

To this, Sam shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Wait… So, you're saying that not only are there werewolves, but there's other people who can turn into animals?" John asked, his eyebrows raised in shock. "What else is out there? Are you going to tell me that vampires are real next?"

This was a response that the Winchesters got often. When something finally happened to shatter a person's false sense of security, they had all kinds of questions. They always wanted to know what myths were real, which ones weren't, and how they could be killed. A few had even asked if Santa Claus actually delivered presents to all the good little boys and girls around the world. Unfortunately, as far as the Winchesters were aware, good old Saint Nick was one of the few untrue rumors.

"Well…" Dean began. "If you mean the classic, Dracula vampire, no. But bloodsuckers sure are out there."

"Jesus!" John exclaimed breathlessly.

"I'd stop asking questions now, if I were you," Sam cautioned. "I've had people run away screaming."

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he wanted to respond, but settled on staying quiet. He ran a hand through his short, blond hair to give himself something to do. The fair locks stuck up in random places and Dean had to stifle a laugh at the sight.

"If the killer is in fact a 'shifter' as you call it, then how do we track it down?" Sherlock asked.

"That's the tough part. They don't leave a trail like other supernatural beings do. They don't even have a signature way of killing. Spirits set off EMF readers, werewolves take the heart, and vamps drain the victims of blood. But shifters… they can kill in all kinds of ways. And depending on what they can shift into, they can disappear from the scene without a trace. I think the only chance was have of stopping this thing is by catching it in the act," Dean replied.

"How are we supposed to do that? It already has all of its victims. For all we know, it's hiding them in the sewers and killing them off whenever it gets the itching to," John said.

"Well, that's something we're gonna have to figure out," Sam said.

"Please tell me this doesn't mean another day in the library," Dean whined.

Something in Sam's expression told Dean that that was exactly what it meant.

"Found anything?" Sam asked in a hopeful voice. Dean shook his head tiredly.

"We've been here for five hours, and I'm coming up with jack. There's no local legend about shifters, no headlines about killings like these. It's starting to look like we're not going to be able to solve this one," Dean said.

"You give up too easily, Mr. Winchester," Sherlock stated as he dropped a book in front of Dean. "It would seem that there is in fact a legend that fits our current predicament."

"Well, come on! Spit it out! We don't got all day!" Dean exclaimed.

"We do not _have_ all day," Sherlock corrected. "That aside, though, I do believe that I have discovered what we are dealing with. It's called a shadow walker."

"A shadow walker?" John inquired, setting down a large pile of books on the table. "What have I missed?"

"Nothing yet, John. A shadow walker, my young hunters, is precisely what it sounds like. It is a creature that lives in the shadows that materializes during the full moon. They are known for kidnapping young men and women in sinful relationships."

"Sinful in what way?" Dean asked.

"In any way. Any young person who has sex before marriage, cheats on their significant other, or engages in a homosexual relationship is in danger of being abducted by a shadow walker."

"Okay, but that doesn't explain the animal hair or the missing hearts," Dean said.

"If you waited for me to finish, you would realize that it does." Sherlock shot the elder Winchester a deadly look. "When shadow walkers materialize, they do so as wolves. They hold their prey hostage for several months, torturing them in various ways, before finally ripping their hearts out."

"Kind of poetic justice, if you think about it," Sam said. "I mean, they're killed by the very organ that represents love."

"Precisely!" Sherlock praised. "At least _someone_ around here understands."

Both John and Dean scowled at this.

"Okay, Mr. Know-It-All. If you're so smart, how do we kill this thing?" Dean sneered.

"Just like any other shape shifter, Dean. With silver."


End file.
